The day was dim, cold and dreary. The dark clouds above us released freezing rain that pelted the newly turned earth at our feet; popped against the dark black umbrella I held above us with a shivering hand. The matching darkness of my little brother’s suit coat was dotted with salty tears that never seemed to disappear. He held tightly onto the corner of my own black suit coat, sniffling, using his sleeve to wipe away the dripping from his nose. The aromas of lily and lilac were around us, covering us un a sickly sweet blanket however, the fragrant buds couldn’t overpower the bitter stench of pain and anguish.
Engraved with words I never thought I’d see, I could only stare at the red, heartless slab of stone before us. Was this real? Shouldn’t this just be some nightmare? Just a cruel, conjured up catastrophe made up in my own sleeping mind? It couldn’t be... It just couldn’t be... This couldn’t be reality.
I touched the tip of my cold, numb finger to the crevice of the newly carved letters, picking up and smearing the water that had found its way there. Tracing the painted black recesses, ice cold water dripped down the length of my finger.
R.
My fingers were numb from the cold; so cold they were cherry red and pain shot through them at the slightest of movements. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the blanket fragrance that I was rapidly growing sick of. It was like a thick syrup sliding down my throat, sticking to the back of it like rancid cough medicine. My fingers ached from the cold but I continued tracing.
I.
Shivering under the umbrella, I sniffled from the chill in the air. Like my fingers, I was numb. My chest ached and felt like there was the weight of the world on it, pushing me down. It felt as if my heart would burst. There was a tingling within my core, starting in the center of my chest, traveling to the tips of my fingers and the ducts of my eyes. I remembered a saying I’d heard once: “tears are the rivers of blood from a broken heart.” If I wasn’t crying, did that mean my heart wasn’t broken? My finger traced.
P.
Everything pointed to reality. This was no dream. My mother was dead.
“Isaac? Why did they put mommy in that box and put her down there?” Alistair sniffled. “How will she get home?”
I didn’t answer.
“Isaac?” he asked, shaking the corner of my coat to try and get my attention.
“Come on you little brats! I won’t wait forever!” our father howled at us from the car.
Alistair gasped then grabbed my hand, trying to pull me in the direction of the car. The fear of our father’s rage had won out over the sadness and confusion of our mother’s death.
I hated him. I wanted to punch him, stab him, shoot him, anything to get that “father” out of our lives. I didn’t want to listen to a word that murderer had to say.
“Isaac! Alistair!” the man barked.
“Please, Isaac!” Alistair whispered fearfully and, only for his sake, I said farewell to our mother and headed over to the car where the devil incarnate lay in wait.

Yelling and banging sounded from all places within the run-down house. Anyone walking by could have heard it if only they’d taken the time to listen. Maybe if they had, there wouldn’t be a deathly still silence within the house. Maybe if they had, my brother and I wouldn’t be sleeping deeply in the company of our mother.